The Inspiration
by Cyndi
Summary: This is a IRL story. It's personal, and the reason why I write like I do. Please don't flame me.


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The Inspiration

My grandma was very dear to me. I loved her with all of my heart, and when I learned she had cancer in the brain and was dying, my heart shattered. Watching her suffer was even worse.

Before she got sick, my grandma would sit and crochet for hours. Being eighty-one years old, it was almost all she could do. She had a bad back and hip. Grandma used a walker to get around (One without wheels). Her smile could light up a room, and you'd never know she had false teeth; she had hair that looked like a stray rain cloud if the light hit it just right. 

Even now, as I sit here typing this, I can still hear my grandma greeting me. "Hi Sweetheart!" She used to say. I can still taste those wonderful egg-salad sandwiches she used to make, and my grandma made the BEST egg-salad sandwiches on this planet!

But then that all changed.

It started with a fall in the bathroom. Having a bad back and hip, grandma couldn't get up on her own, and asked my grandpa for assistance. Within a few weeks (or days, I can't remember exactly), she had trouble speaking or expressing her thoughts, and her once-neat handwriting degenerated to messy squiggles. Then she started having mood swings. She got real mean, and yelled at people out of frustration.

When grandma nearly wet herself in bed, my family finally got her to a doctor. That was when we learned she was sick. My dad told me it was terminal. I felt like someone had socked me in the gut. 

__

It had to be a mistake! I thought.

It wasn't, but for awhile I kept telling myself it was, and hoped that perhaps the next day, someone would come home and say there was a mix up and that grandma was OK. That never happened.

I begged to be taken to the hospital to see my grandma. I took an old stuffed animal with me. Her name was Red. If you watched Fraggle Rock back in the 80's, then you'd know Red.

Red is the "get well" symbol in my family. But no matter what, Red couldn't make my grandma better. Still, it was comforting to know that Grandma would have someone to hug when she felt lonely or afraid.

At the hospital, I hardly got to see grandma because the dumb doctors were hovering around. When grandma saw me though, she smiled her familiar smile. It made me feel better for awhile. That was also the last time I saw her smile her natural smile.

About a week after that, she got to go home. Grandma was going home to die. The thought sickened me, and even now as I write this I have a lump in my throat that's choking me. 

Grandma didn't know where she was when she got home. "Where am I?" She asked.

"You're home, Grandma." I told her.

"No more hospital?"

"No more. You're safe…" 

My family didn't want to tell grandma that she was dying, but we had to so she could sign the form for the hospice care. Although unable to express herself as clearly as before, she could still understand what was going on and being said around her. I watched her sign the paper and had to smile. With a shaking hand, grandma wrote the name "Grace" on the line. And she struggled with all her might to make it neat. Her other arm was wrapped around Red.

Later on in the illness she was very emotional. Once, while I was sitting with her, grandma started to cry and asked, "Why is everyone doing this for me?"

By golly, I loved her. Even while she was dying she was thinking of everyone else. "Because it's time for use to repay you for all the times you took care of us." I said. It was so hard not to cry.

As she got more and more ill, grandma got reduced to wearing diapers. She couldn't control her bodily functions. She lost a lot of weight. I mean, my grandma was a big boned woman. Not necessarily fat or muscular, but big boned. At that time she looked almost like a stick. I guess cancer, that horrid, ugly disease, takes everything from us. The left side of grandma's face sagged, like a piece of raw meat. She would drool, and often times Red would be sopping wet against my grandma's cheek.

The last sentence I ever remember my grandma saying to me was, "I love you, Cyndi." 

Later on, my mother told me that the last time grandma spoke clearly was to say my name. That had been on November 7, 1995. Grandma had been in a coma, but had woken up for a short time and asked for me. Knowing what this could mean, my mom came to me right after school and we hauled hiney to grandma's house.

I can still remember what it was like to say goodbye. It was the hardest thing I ever did. As I write this part, I can feel the tears forming as they did that day.

My grandma was snoring. I could hear it from the hallway. When I went to her room, it was dark in there, the curtains were closed. Her snoring filled the room. Grandma lay motionless on the bed, her mouth hanging wide open, twitching occasionally as she snored. Her eyes were open too and looked like they were made of glass, but they didn't move when I passed my hand over her face. Like beautiful lace threaded into her scalp, grandma's silver hair seemed to gently cushion her head against the pillow. I gave her a kiss on the forehead to wake her up. 

"She is unconscious." The hospice nurse told me.

"Can she hear me?" I asked.

"Yes, you have to believe she knows you are here."

"I - can I..I want to be alone with her." I stuttered, unsure how to ask or say that.

The nurse kindly left. I picked up one of grandma's hands and looked at it. I held a limp, boney and lifeless hand. Her skin was so soft, but slightly cold. Her fingernails and fingertips were pale, almost blue because her body was shutting down. The pain was like a knot in the pit of my stomach and chest, a lump was in my throat, and for a long time I could not speak. I just sat there, caressing her hand, playing with her fingers like I used to when I was a little girl and laying my palm against hers to compare the sizes of our hands. The snoring was almost rythmic, the sound filling the room. It frightened me, but I didn't leave.

Finally, I spoke. "Grandma?"

No response, except for the movement of her jaws as she snored.

I put her hand on my cheek. The pain was too much. I couldn't hold it inside anymore, and I started to cry. Not explosive sobs that made me choke until I gagged, but quiet, silent tears that one would weep into their pillow as they cried themselves to sleep at night.

"You're the best, grandma. You're the best in the world. I love you grandma. You're the best…you're the best…I love you…" I kept repeating those words over and over again until I was crying so much that my mom came in and held me.

"Did she hear me?" I cried into my mother's shoulder.

"She knew you were there. I saw the glimmer in her eye." My mother told me. I felt a little better.

Two days later, on November 9, 1995, at 12:09 p.m., grandma died and went Home to God. I was at school eating lunch, and was oblivious to the fact that she had died until that night. I was watching T.V. when my dad came home.

"Cyndi can I have a minute?" Asked my dad.

I got up right away. "What is it?"

My dad took me into his room, picked Red up and handed her to me. At first it didn't register. Then he said, "Old Red's work ran out." He started to cry.

"She…she's gone?" I asked, wanting to faint.

My dad nodded and held me, and we cried together. I thought I'd be hurting for a long time after that, but I didn't. Maybe it was because I'd had a chance to say goodbye. I don't think I'll ever know. But the pain is always there.

Right now, as I type I am crying, just re-living these memories.

Nearly a month after grandma's death, on December 6, 1995, my dad, mom and I went to the beach. Grandma was being buried at sea. We threw flowers into the water, and I took a little bag of "memories" with me. There were weights in it, but it also had little knick-knacks in it too. A picture of the family, a little letter saying to rest well and that I loved her, and a piece of paper with tons and tons of hugs and kisses drawn on it.

I can still remember how calm it was that day, the water sparkled beautifully against the pale blue sky. The wind whispered its mysterious songs to me and its invisible fingers played with my long hair.

Letting go of my grandma was the hardest thing I ever did. I was very close to her. And on the way home from that trip to the sea, I wrote my first poem. It was very short and simple, but I felt as if it was something she would have liked.

_Goodbye Grandma,_

fly up to the sky.

I miss you,

And the things you do.

Goodbye Grandma,

Fly away.

I'll see you again someday.

Those simple little words brought a peace about me. A resolve to the pain. For all I know, they were words she would have said to me.

In my heart, I believe she did tell me those words to say. I believe that ever since she died, my grandma's spirit has been my personal muse. The little voice that inspires me to write my stories and poems. One of the poems I wrote got publised. It was titled "Love Is A Rose". I know who I owe it all to now.

Thank you, Grandma. I love you.


End file.
